The Love of William and Elizabeth
by JesrinOngorvad
Summary: Love is a fragile thing, and William Turner knows this first hand. He can't stop thinking of Elizabeth-of her remarkable beauty and grace-but he knows that one ill-planned move could ruin everything. So he does the unthinkable: He asks Elizabeth to the Port Royale Ball. No matter what happens, though, Will knows it is better to have loved and lost than to have never loved at all


**Will and Elizabeth**

I remember the moment when I first set eyes on her. I was young and impressionable then—perhaps twelve years old—and the sight of a beautiful girl like her snatched my breath from my body. As the son of a pirate, I was used to the rough and grimy; the grim and mundane. But here, right before me—here was something of far greater value than the world I was leaving behind. Something I could hold on to. Cherish. Love. Something I could vest myself in without receiving pointed hatred in return. You could say it was love at first sight. And she has been my only love ever since. No other young wench has caught my eye yet.

I often wonder what goes through her mind when we pass on the busy streets of Port Royale. Does she turn up her nose at me out of disdain, or does she harbor in her bosom a secret love that must be repressed for propriety's sake? I know that she is the mayor's daughter, and that with that esteemed position, she must behave in a fitting, becoming manner. But isn't she free to love whom she chooses, even if it happens to be a blacksmith like myself? Hasn't her father the sense to give her leave to pursue whom she desires? Or does he value her reputation more than her affection? Does he foresee her falling in the eyes of society should she choose to fall in love with me?

I've gone over it so many times in my mind, it's starting to make me a bit delusional. I see her when I lie awake in bed, gazing at me with longing eyes. She is always attired in the prettiest dresses, hair turned up as a proper young lady should, fluttering her eyelashes in the way of the coquettes. I smile at this, but then I blink once, and she vanishes like a specter in the night. She returns again sometimes, but only at her fancy. Were it my fancy governing her presence, she'd be there all the time, and her features would not display flirtatious half-interest, but true love and affection.

The folks in town might remark, "It's only a passing infatuation. The love of a young boy still struggling to survive in the body of a young man." But I dismiss their comments as foolish. It is my manhood that has driven me to love her even more. After all, I work hard. I make enough to pull my own weight. I am strong enough to raise a family and care for them. I love her with all my heart. I have considered all exigencies should the marriage come about, and at every turn—whether it be for the worse or the better—I am prepared. I am strong enough now. That is not the passing infatuation of a boy. That is the quiet consideration of a man. And that quiet consideration can only mean love. I know it in my heart.

And for that reason, I have decided to ask her to the Port Royale Ball a fortnight hence. Granted, it is a ball only intended for the most affluent denizens in town, but I'm sure, with a bit of effort, I can render myself pompous and wealthy-looking. That, however, is not the primary issue. My greatest concern is whether Elizabeth will say "yes" or not. I have this deep, yearning hope in my heart that she will, but the other side of me is filled with doubt. My head declares that she is too great for me to even try to attain, and that she will denounce my request as impetuous and impudent. But I must try. I will never forgive myself if I let fear overcome me now. After all, what do I have to lose? The answer is nothing. And I _do_, in fact, have everything to gain.

I'm going now. I have determined upon myself to do it. Perhaps, when I return, I will have greater tidings to give in this journal than I have to give now. Pray that it is so. Pray that dear Elizabeth will look on me with favor, though I am small in her eyes.

William Turner

Will signed his name with the meticulous care of a blacksmith and rose from his chair. He set his quill into its inkwell, donned his threadbare overcoat, and pinched the wick by his little desk, extinguishing the flame that burned there. He crossed the main floor of his workshop and opened the door, being greeted by a crack of thunder and torrential sheets of rain. It had been like this all evening, and to Will, it did little to alleviate his fears. His mind was constantly going over what he would say to her—how he would act when the conversation took a turn for the worst. He stepped over the threshold, closed the door behind him, and ventured into the rain.

Elizabeth's house was a good fifteen minutes outside of Port Royale, nestled at the top of a little slope that overlooked the Caribbean. It was a beautiful place, with a little orchard around back enclosed by stone walls and a pleasant garden out front. The vista of the sea was incredible to behold. At sunset, the horizon exploded in an amalgamation of brilliant colors. Oranges, purples, and reds collided in a breathtaking display. Will could barely contain himself when he beheld such marvels. He only wished that he had someone to share it with—someone he could hold onto as the sun descended into the sea. Perhaps, he hoped against hope, tonight would change that.

He ascended the cobblestone path up the hill, turning his head at wiles to see the lightning flashing in the distance. Thunder rumbled with stentorian severity, shaking Will's resolve to continue on. This was no tame storm. The wind was strong and threatened to send Will stumbling off of the cliff to his right; the rain was fierce and blinding. He could see five feet ahead of him, but no more. Beyond that, he took it on faith that this path would lead him where he needed to go—would lead him to Elizabeth.

He was close now. The path was starting to level off, and he could descry two little lights in the distance from lamps shining through the windows. The sight of them gave him new resolve. Though the wind howled in his ears; though the rain battered and stung him; though he was soaked through and through, he pressed on. Finally. At last. He was here. Elizabeth's front door. This was the moment.

Will raised his hand and knocked with the brass knocker, smoothing back his hair with the other hand and trying to make himself look somewhat presentable. The door opened. A middle-aged maid appeared, her face nervous and taut. "Your business?" she inquired curtly, about ready to shut the door.

"I'm here to see Elizabeth," Will replied. He tried to sound kind, but the thunder and the lightning and the rain didn't make him seem like a well-meaning traveler.

"For what purpose?" she ventured. The door closed just a little.

"I mean to ask her something. It won't take long. Would you let me come inside?"

"You haven't got a knife or gun or anything, have you?" she asked, her voice quivering. She looked faint. "Have you come to _kill _us?"

Will shook his head. "No. No. I have no intention of killing you. Look here—" He unbuttoned his coat and turned out his pockets. "No weapons. I only wish to speak to Elizabeth. Please. It's very urgent; I wouldn't have come all this way through the storm if it were otherwise."

The maid pursued her lips and gave Will a very disapproving look, like that of a mother scolding her son. "You're a silly fellow, coming out in this weather. Very well. Come in, but stay on the rug. I won't have you muddying the floors." She opened the door to allow Will passage. Will stepped in, buttoned his coat again, and had another go at his hair.

"I'm sure I look loathsome," he muttered to himself.

"Loathsome?" the maid cried. "You?" Then she laughed and called up the winding staircase: "Elizabeth, there's a man here who's asking for you—says it's urgent."

Then the most beautiful creature appeared, attired in a dainty nightgown, with her hair falling about her shoulders in waves of shimmering gold. She descended the staircase with the gentlest ease, like a swan might glide over water. And when at last she stopped a few feet from Will, he didn't know what to say. Everything he had rehearsed dissolved into the depths of his bewildered mind. Everything. Now, there was only Elizabeth.

"William Turner, right?" Elizabeth asked. There was condescension in her tone, but Will didn't mind. It was terribly attractive.

"Yes. Yes. And you're—you're Elizabeth? I mean, Elizabeth Swan—Ms. Swan? However you like it. That's—that's who you are, in fact." Will kicked himself. Perhaps, he thought, the smolder would ease things up….

"If you're going to waste my time, Mr. Turner, then you'd best return to your dwelling before this storm gets any worse. Moreover, I was just about to retire to bed. Hurry along with your business."

"Elizabeth, you know that there's a dance fourteen days from now, don't you? The Port Royale Ball? And I hear that you do not yet have a partner."

"Yes, I am aware, Mr. Turner, and no, I do not have a partner. But the purpose of your coming hither was to attend to urgent business; perhaps you might explain what is so urgent about a ball?"

"Elizabeth Swan, will you go to the Port Royale Ball with me?"

Then the most remarkable thing happened. Elizabeth's features relaxed, and she said with a smile, "There. That's better. You need only have asked. I would be delighted, Mr. Turner. Veritably delighted."

Will had a moment of ecstasy. Then he fainted dead away.


End file.
